The Death of Texas Power

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Eric Draper, The White House / AP Photo George W. Bush is out of office, conservatism is out of fashion, and the oilmen have lost their clout. Bryan Burrough tracks the rise and fall of the ornery, loudmouthed state. Plus, read an excerpt from his new book, The Big Rich.

The passing of the Bush Administration means the end of many things, from water boarding to Darrell Hammond’s awesome Dick Cheney impersonation, but one of its least-noticed implications is the end of a half century of Texas political power, not to mention the death of one of our least-cherished cultural icons, the mighty Texas oilman.

For 28 of the last 48 years, going all the way back to Lyndon Johnson’s acceptance of the vice presidency in 1961, there has been a Texan in the White House. And all three of the Texans who ultimately won the presidency—LBJ and both Bushes—surfed to victory on a tsunami of Texas oil money. Wealthy Texans were among the loudest voices during the tumultuous birthing of postwar American conservatism during the early 1950s, and without all that hollering, and all the millions behind it, it’s doubtful whether conservatism would have experienced the resurgence of the last four decades.

The most visible Texas politician in America right now is Ron Paul. Ron. Frickin. Paul. Jesus.

Well, conservatism has now gone badly out of fashion, and with it, the power of Texas oilmen and politicians has sunk to prewar levels – pre-World War II, that is. George W. is gone, as is his father, as is Tom Delay, Dick Armey, Phil Gramm and a dozen other Texas troublemakers. Now, with Bush out of office, all that’s left of Texas political power is a sullen Boone Pickens and fifty-odd Congressmen no one’s ever heard of. Here’s how bad it’s gotten. The most visible Texas politician in America right now is Ron Paul. Ron. Frickin. Paul. Jesus.

And that’s a shame. Because love ‘em or hate ‘em, few American archetypes have entertained us for as long as the ornery, loudmouthed Texan, especially in its superwealthy version. It is a caricature whose birth can be specifically dated. In fact, it sprang almost fully formed from an April 1948 issue of Life, when the magazine’s editors ran a photo of a Dallas oilman named H.L. Hunt and asked the question, ``Is this America’s richest man?’’ It seemed a ridiculous question. No one outside Texas—and few inside the state—had ever heard of Hunt, much less his closest peers in oil wealth, Hugh Roy Cullen of Houston, Clint Murchison of Dallas and Sid Richardson of Fort Worth. Within weeks, however, all four men would board a decade-long media merry-go-round in which they took turns being crowned the nation’s wealthiest man.

The image of modern Texas, of loud, boastful, wealthy rightwingers who owned private islands and championship football teams and schemed to take over vast international markets, is almost solely a product of the media fascination with these four men and their colorful offspring. Between the bigamous Hunt’s three separate families, Richardson’s schemes to evict Richard Nixon as Eisenhower’s vice president, Murchison’s partnership with the red-baiting Joe McCarthy or Cullen’s calls to impeach the Supreme Court, the Texans reliably filled the notebooks of American reporters and writers busy for nearly fifty years. And that’s not to mention the escapades of their children, whether it was Bunker Hunt throwing away $5 billion trying to corner the silver market in 1979 or Clint Murchison Jr. sleeping his way through squadrons of Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders. I mean, you just couldn’t make this stuff up.